


The Overlook

by lea_hazel



Series: Decline and Fall [15]
Category: Seven Kingdoms: The Princess Problem (Visual Novel)
Genre: Arranged Marriage, F/M, Hobbies, Infidelity, Mind Games, Poor Life Choices, Royalty, Secret Relationship, Unhealthy Relationships, art as a hobby, smart girls making dumb decisions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-16
Updated: 2018-08-11
Packaged: 2019-05-24 14:53:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14956739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lea_hazel/pseuds/lea_hazel
Summary: Verity likes to find a quiet place to sketch in privacy. That is not to be, alas.





	1. Chapter 1

There were several hobbies of her former life that Verity had no qualms about abandoning, now that she was a married woman, and more or less a master of her own free time. Some things remained inevitable, of course, like dancing. She had never liked it, but for so long as she had legs to stand on, she knew she would be called upon to perform it publicly. This she was more or less resigned to, but if she never recited a poem out loud again in her life, she would call it a blessing.

Drawing, though, was not an occupation she felt inclined to give up. She had had more time to practice it in Arland, and could sometimes prevail on one of her ladies to sit for a portrait. At the summit there was no time for such an idle pastime, and her mother the Queen had not allowed her drawing things to be packed in her trunk, besides. They would come loose from their boxes and stain her petticoats, she had said.

So she'd arrived in Revaire without her implements, and it was some time before she managed to get them replaced. Brushes and ink for portraits and charcoal for landscapes, as she had always been in the habit of using. Her drawing master fought long and bitterly with her nurses over the state of her hands when she came away from his lessons. Eventually a pair of black gloves was procured that he declared fine enough to draw with, without blunting the sensitivity of her fingers.

On that day, Verity had taken her new box of charcoal sticks and an empty notebook up to the battlements, and there she sat, sketching the view of the city below. A more practical pursuit would be to map out the city's districts, the major roads and the markets, the city wall and its many gates. But Verity imagined there must already be maps like that, perhaps made to order or even available to purchase, if one knew the right shop. She didn't really want to be practical, just then, and she doubted anyone would take an interest in her scribbling.

For the task at hand, she'd nestled herself into one of the crenelations, one leg crossed beneath her and the other dangling quite scandalously off the wall. She had no drawing board or lap desk, so she held her journal open with one hand, and balanced the box of charcoal carefully at her elbow. The crenelation was more than deep enough to afford her space, an ancient fortification on a castle hundreds of years old.

Now and then, one of the royal guard would pass by and check on her. She nodded imperiously to them, as her grandmother taught her to do, and they saluted and continued their route along the battlements. She was finally starting to remember some of their names, too, but of course conversing with a guard was not appropriate behavior for a Crown Princess.

The last patrol had passed when she was barely half-done with her landscape, an hour or so ago. She was not terribly surprised when she heard the sound of boots on stone again. It was probably only another patrol. The Old Palace was the most secure location in Starfall City, or more likely, the whole kingdom. The patrols were part of that. So Verity ignored the intruding noises and focused on fixing the smudged charcoal skyline with the tip of her smallest finger.

"That's a very precarious position."

To her own credit, she did not physically startle at the interruption.

"Not really," she said instead, keeping her eyes on the paper. "It's quite spacious, actually."

"Verity, if you fall, you'll break both your legs," said Hyperion. "If you're lucky, that is."

"Luckily for me," she said, "I've been sitting here all afternoon with nary a drop."

"You're willing to take such a chance?" His voice, now, was coming from much nearer, as though he were standing just behind her.

Verity patiently added another small correction to her drawing. "Would I be here if I weren't?"

She did not mean the battlements, and she thought he probably knew that.

"A danger-loving princess does not live to be a Queen," he said. "Can I at least see the product of your labor? I may be able to judge whether your art is worth the risk entailed."

When she felt his hand on her shoulder, she did startle. The movement dislodged the notebook that was nestled in her lap. She leaned forward to grab it before it fell down and, at the same time, felt a powerful grip around her middle, pulling her back from the brink. Her hands were still clenched tightly around the edges of the notebook, and she looked down to check if the drawing had been at all damaged or smudged.

Hyperion dragged her over the edge of the crenelation and back to the walkway.

"You can let go of me now," said Verity, once she had both feet on solid stone.

He didn't. He kept his arm wrapped around her waist and held her back crushed against his chest. His warm breath brushed her cheek. Verity felt her pulse pick up, belatedly.

"Your attraction to danger is becoming a problem, Verity," he said. "You had to select the most dangerous location you could think of for your little artistic endeavors?"

"The battlements are probably the safest part of the castle," said Verity crisply.

"The safest part of the castle," said Hyperion, "is the dungeon."

That sounded a great deal like a threat. Verity didn't bother saying as much to him. It would do no good. If anything, it might actually encourage him.

"Are you done?" asked Verity.

"That depends," he said. "Do you mean to stay on solid ground, from now on?"

"For the moment," she said. "I didn't mean to worry you."

He scoffed.

"You'll find it fiendishly difficult to procure a new Crown Princess at this late stage," she went on, "and people might wonder at where I'd got to. I will make an effort not to fall off any tall walls, now or in the future."

He released her then, taking hold of both her shoulders to turn her around to face him. "Kindly restrict your artistic activities to more sensible ground, in the future," he said. "And go get cleaned up. Your hands are covered in charcoal dust."

She lingered for a moment longer. "May I leave now?" she finally asked, when the moment had passed and he had not let go.

Hyperion leaned down and said, softly, "If your hunger for danger remains unfed, come back here tonight after dinner."

Then he let go of her shoulders and gave her a little shove in the direction of the stairs.

Verity managed to make her way down to her quarters with relative dignity and poise. She was almost to her room when she stopped dead in her tracks, in the middle of the corridor. She had left her charcoal box on the battlements, she realized suddenly. The thought of turning back and going to fetch it made her mouth go dry. She supposed it would have to wait. Assuming the box would still be there when she returned.

And assuming she didn't have more interesting things to occupy her mind with. But it was best to maintain the fiction that she had no intention of returning tonight, at least for the moment. It would make it much easier to focus on the rest of her day.

"Verity!"

The sound of her name made her start so badly she almost dropped her sketchbook.

"I wish you wouldn't be so skittish," said the Queen.

"I will try, Your Majesty," said Verity.

"Where were you all afternoon?" asked the Queen.

A shiver ran down her back. "I was on the battlements, Your Majesty," she answered. "I was sketching a view of the city." She waved one hand at the book she was clutching.

The Queen made a strange, considering noise. "Come with me to the parlor," she said finally, "and we'll see what this is all about."

_Seeing what it was all about_ was unmistakable code for Verity withstanding long minutes of the Queen's terrible scrutiny, but there was nothing for it. She couldn't very well refuse her, and if she'd wanted to keep her hobby private, she ought to have taken greater care to keep her fingers clean. The Queen's watchful gaze had not missed the black stains on her hands, and her lip curled ever so slightly.

"There is water and soap in my parlor," she said, "so you can wash up as well."

Verity felt the blood rushing out of her face. The Queen's private parlor was very nearly the last place she wanted to be. Somehow just the thought of entering that personal sanctum was enough to unnerve her. She told herself sternly in her mind that this was nonsense thinking, that it was just a room like any other in the castle, and that she had endured far fiercer judgment than that of Queen Violetta. She told herself all this, and it very nearly worked.

The Queen's private parlor was decorated in bone-white and edged in gilt. Verity felt terribly conscious of her clumsy, smudged sketches and the charcoal stains on her hands. She surrendered the sketchbook into the Queen's pristine, gloved hands and shuffled over to the corner of the room. A porcelain pitcher was standing in a matching bowl. Her fingers stained the pitcher when she poured out the water to wash with. The water came off murky, and even the linen cloth she dried her hands with couldn't emerge unmarked.

All the while, Queen Violetta was flipping through the pages of her sketchbook, making obscure noises of reaction.

Verity was as tense as though mortar had been poured down her spine when she sat down across from her mother-in-law. Folding her hands neatly in her lap, she sat silently as she was taught and waited. The Queen was in no hurry. She paged through the slim book at her leisure, and her thin, pale face showed no sign of her thoughts. It served well to remind Verity that, whatever games the Revaire court liked to play, its Queen had played them longer -- and more successfully -- than any courtier.

Finally Violetta shut the book and set it down on the tea-table before her. "You have talent," she said.

"Less talent, Your Majesty," replied Verity, "more hours of practice."

"Both, perhaps," said the Queen. "You can practice for many hours and not improve, if you lack the critical eye. Which you do not."

"Thank you, Your Majesty," said Verity.

She frowned then. "I would not have chosen charcoal for you," she said. "It's an uncomfortable medium, and it stains terribly. As I'm sure you've noticed."

"My drawing master insisted that landscapes must be sketched in charcoal," said Verity.

The Queen frowned more deeply. "Not ink?"

Verity shook her head.

"Humph. Must be an Arlish school of thought," said Violetta. "Revaire's greatest modern artists draw in brush and ink. Haven't you at least got a holder for the charcoal sticks? You must learn to keep your hands clean."

"I do, Your Majesty," said Verity. "It's only that sometimes I need to fix something, and--"

"And you drawing master," said the Queen, her eyebrows snapping together, "did not teach you any better techniques for erasing than to smudge charcoal all over your fingers and your clothes."

She said nothing, and her silence was taken as agreement.

"Very well," said Violetta crisply. "It's a seemly pastime, and you have too much talent to waste. Don't be so careless with your materials in the future. Perhaps I will see about getting you some further instruction. Do you draw landscapes only?"

"I was taught to draw still life and portraits as well," said Verity. "I've only had more practice with landscapes."

"Show me your portraits, next time," said the Queen, and abruptly dismissed her.

Verity tried to snatch up her journal as fast as she could and beat a hasty strategic retreat, without appearing as though she were running away. It was a delicate balance and she left unconvinced of her success. On the short way back to her own rooms she had time to dwell on the mixed blessing of the Queen's attention. She'd always assumed she would have to give up most of her hobbies when she was married. It had never occurred to her to suppose that she might seek further instruction, instead of muddling along on her own.

She was almost at her room when she heard a sound and became aware, too suddenly, that someone else was in the corridor with her.

The man beside her cleared his throat again.

Verity looked up.

It was one of the palace guards, one whom she'd seen about the palace on more than one occasion. He'd been assigned to accompany her riding once or twice, but she couldn't remember when she'd last seen him. Certainly she had no idea why he would be requesting her attention all of a sudden. Well, it cost her nothing to be courteous, regardless of his motives.

"I think I know you, guardsman," she said. "Your name is--" she racked her memory.

"Alek, Your Highness," said the guard.

"Alek," said Verity, "of course. Did you need me for anything, guardsman Alek?"

"Your Highness left this up on the battlements," he said, "and I thought you would like it back."

He held out a wooden box to her.

"Oh!" said Verity. "My charcoals. I forgot them, didn't I?" She accepted the box from him and added belatedly, "Thank you, Alek."

He bowed. "Your Highness."

"Don't you have a patrol to return to?" she asked.

"Yes, Your Highness," he answered.

"Go on, then," said Verity with a smile, "and thank you again."

He bowed a second time, turning bright pink, then turned his heel and marched down the corridor and around the corner. She stood and watched him go for a moment or two, before turning herself and retiring to her rooms. Petra was waiting for her with a pressed gown and a pot of soothing evening tea.

"The Queen complimented my drawing skills just now," she said to Petra when she sat down to freshen her face.

"I believe the Queen is growing quite fond of you, milady," replied Petra.

"She has a funny way of showing it," said Verity.

"Queens will have their ways," replied Petra.

"I suppose that means I will have my own ways, some day," said Verity, "if I am ever Queen."

"Surely," said Petra, "milady means _when_."

"Surely," echoed Verity. "Yes, I suppose I do mean _when_."

She'd finished dressing and was sitting with her tea and a book when a heavy knock sounded at her door.

"I do believe he's early," said Petra, while one of the younger maids dashed to get the door.

"He's been on his best behavior lately," replied Verity. "If I didn't know better, I'd say he was feeling guilty about Nerissa."

If Petra had some response to this, she kept it close to the breast. Verity carefully marked the page in her book and set it aside while Petra got up to clear the tea things. She was sitting with her hands clasped in her lap when her husband stalked into the room. He looked no more agitated than usual, for a mercy.

"Good evening," said Verity placidly.

"Are you ready?" asked Jarrod.

"I am," said Verity, and rose from her seat without a hand.

Petra made a small noise from behind her, and Verity half-turned to find her holding out the little cape that matched her current gown.

"The evening will be cool, milady," she said.

"I'm only going to dinner, Petra," replied Verity.

"As you wish," said Petra.

"Oh," said Verity with a sigh, "very well, if you insist."

She turned again and was about to let Petra drape the capelet over her shoulders.

Jarrod got to her first. "I'll do it," he said tersely. "Go on, get out of here."

Petra made a clicking noise at the other two maids, and they both rushed to the door, clutching their skirts.

"You're dismissed for the evening, Petra," Verity called out after her.

Jarrod waited until the door was shut behind them before he said, "I don't know why you coddle them like that."

"It's only courteous," said Verity.

He harrumphed, but didn't object. She stood stock still and waited until he remembered that he still had her jacket in his hands. Finally he shook it open and laid it on her shoulders, his hands lingering a moment. Verity reached up and fastened the ribbon herself.

She turned to him and asked, "Are we ready for dinner?"

"I was ready an hour ago," he complained.

"That's dreadful," said Verity. "If you're that hungry, then we really must go."

Jarrod muttered something under his breath, but offered her his arm nonetheless.

"There they are," said Hyperion when they entered the dining room. "At long last. I thought I told you to be on time, boy."

"Please, Papa," said Gisette from her place on the far side of the dining table, "don't put off dinner any longer for the sake of lecturing my brother yet again."

Jarrod glared at her and opened his mouth to spit out his retort.

Verity squeezed her hand on his arm a little. "I thought you were hungry," she murmured, softly enough that only he could hear.

"Gisette is right," said Jarrod through gritted teeth. "We've kept you long enough."

He even held out her chair for her.

Verity, of course, thanked him politely.

The rest of the dinner passed more or less without incident. As soon as the last dish was lifted from the tablecloth Jarrod asked to be excused, in his especial tone of voice that invariably sounded more like a demand than a request. Violetta gave him leave, but her lip curled in displeasure as she did. Hyperion followed the ladies to the parlor, but shut himself in the library rather than sit with his wife and daughter.

It was all the same to Verity. Gisette and her mother rarely proved to be comfortable company, when they were working in tandem.

"Are you cold, sister?" asked Gisette, gesturing at the capelet still tied at her throat.

"Oh, this?" said Verity lightly. "It's nothing. I only thought that I might take a little evening walk in the garden. Would you care to join me?"

"The garden at night mightn't prove as fascinating as you hope," said Gisette, "on a night when no visitors are with us. I think I'll stay in and finish my letters."

"I don't like you walking alone at night, Verity," said Violetta. "You mustn't go out to the garden tonight."

"I was only meaning to get some fresh air, Your Majesty," said Verity demurely.

"If you only want the air, then go up to one of the parapets," said the Queen firmly. "The guards are always nearby, and you'll be protected from the wind."

"Yes, Your Majesty," said Verity.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 2: the action.

The patrols were really not at all as frequent as the Queen seemed to believe. Verity made note of the discrepancy and resolved to examine it in closer detail at a future time. For the moment she ducked close to the parapet's wall and cursed her poor judgment. The afternoon had been clear and crisp, but pleasant, but sometime during the evening the wind had picked up. She wasn't dressed for a walk and the cold air cut right through her velvet and lace. She was on the point of turning around and going back down into the castle proper when she heard footsteps approach.

"There you are," said a familiar voice.

"Were you searching the castle for me?" she asked. "I am exactly where I said I would be."

"Come here," he said.

"I'm getting very tired of being ordered about," said Verity crossly.

"News to me," he said. "You've never seemed to mind it before."

"It's a lady's prerogative to change her mind," said Verity.

"Are you in a bad mood tonight?" asked Hyperion. "Or just cold? That dress is ridiculous."

"I'm not in a humor to have my fashion criticized, either," she said, tucking her hands under her arms.

He stepped closer. "I can find some more interesting way to occupy your mind, if you like."

"How charitable of you," said Verity.

But when he skimmed his hand over the skin on the side of her neck, she obligingly tipped her face up to his. His fingers toyed with the ribbon tied at her throat before he cupped her face and kissed her.

"I should bend you over the battlements," he breathed into her ear.

"You're not still mad about that, are you?" asked Verity. "It was an innocent mistake."

"You are many things, Verity," said Hyperion, "but innocent is not one of them. It was reckless, and worse yet, it was pointless."

"I had a good view of the city," she replied.

"Wait for summer, then," said Hyperion. "Lost Lake has far better views. You can draw all the landscapes you want, then."

She would have found a retort for that, too, but just then he decided to distract her by pulling apart the knot that kept her capelet in place. It slid down to the stone floor with a whisper of satin. The wind bit at her bare shoulders and cut through her thin lace sleeves, and Verity shivered. For Hyperion, this just served as an excuse to press her against the stone wall of the parapet, and himself close against her. Briefly, she was overly conscious of her hair catching against the rough stone.

He traced her collarbone idly with his thumb. "Not buttoned up to the chin, for once, are you?" he remarked with obvious approval.

"I won't be held responsible for the fashion," said Verity.

"So you have often said," replied Hyperion. "You know, some day I am going to have to arrange an opportunity to undress you properly. These innumerable buttons and clasps and things are provoking in the extreme."

"Fastening them," said Verity, "is much more trouble than undoing them. I promise you."

"You're not sufficiently distracted," he said.

And kissed her so that it took her breath away.

Her back arched and she found herself scrabbling for a grasp on his shoulders. For a moment she thought she felt her feet leave the ground, but that might just have been a side effect of the blood pounding in her ears. She dug her fingertips into his back to steady herself.

"I am through with talking for tonight, Verity," said Hyperion, once he had released her mouth. "Do you understand?"

Verity nodded breathlessly. Yes, she understood quite well.

"Good," he said.

He toyed with a strand of her hair before tucking it behind her ear and sliding his hand over her face and down her neck. Tilting her head to one side, he kissed her neck and her collarbone above the lacy edging of her bodice. His free hand skimmed over the lacing on the side of her dress before settling on her hip. Verity let slip a small moan. She could practically feel his smile curving against her neck but, just as he said, he was done talking. Instead, he slipped his hand farther down and started hiking up her skirts.

Verity gasped, and her fingers tightened against the fabric of his coat. She thought he would tease her, as he'd done before, but Hyperion instead pressed her back harder against the stone wall. He crushed his body against hers so that she could feel his heat and hardness, his desperation, his rough breath on the sensitive skin of her neck. Hyperion groaned in a way that reverberated down to her bones, and Verity slid her fingers to tangle in his hair. He pulled back, but only long enough to unlace himself.

The next thing she knew, he had hooked his hands under her thighs and had her pinned to the wall, and he was entering her. It was almost too fast, almost too hard, and she clung to him, both arms wrapped tight, muffling her face in the crook of his neck. She couldn't tell whether it was just too painful or perfect, exactly what she had been pretending not to fantasize about all day long. His fingers digging into her thighs would bruise the next day, she knew, and a long shudder traveled down her spine as she arched against him.

Limp and nerveless, Verity disentangled her fingers from where they had dug into his hair. She shuddered one more time when the cold evening wind struck her flushed face and sweat-stained skin. Bracing her back against the wall of the parapet, she fought to catch her breath, watching Hyperion from under half-lidded eyes. She clenched and unclenched her hands to bring the blood flowing, and reached down to shake out her skirts.

Hyperion was regarding her strangely.

"What?" asked Verity, steadying herself with one hand flat against the cold stone wall.

"You bit me," he said.

"Beg pardon?" said Verity.

"Verity," he said, "you sank your teeth into my neck. Like an angry little vole."

She pondered this for a moment.

"What do you have to say for yourself, Verity?" he asked.

"Well," she said thoughtfully, "to be honest, you've left bruises on me almost every single time we've met. I _might_ say that turnabout is fair play, if I felt so inclined."

He shook his head. "Go to your room."

She blinked.

"It's late, Verity," said Hyperion. "Go get some sleep. This is no time nor place for Crown Princesses to be wandering about, unchaperoned."

"You're infuriating," she said.

"I try," said Hyperion.

She felt sure that he did, in fact. At that time, however, there was nothing to be gained from pondering the matter further. In fact, she felt sure that she had much more to gain from calling for a hot bath and letting her trusted maid untangle the mess of her hair before it frizzed out and became utterly uncontrollable. She shook her head to herself, but obligingly retreated down to the castle proper, offering a silent prayer that she wouldn't encounter any helpful guardsmen or maids on the way. Not before, of course, she retrieved her discarded cape. She had no interest in repeating the day's earlier incident.


End file.
